


The Art of Concealing

by foxjar



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Death, Horror, Inspired by Silent Hills (P.T.), M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Joker/Kurusu Akira, Pining, Post-Canon, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 23:02:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21261065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxjar/pseuds/foxjar
Summary: When Akira travels to Tokyo to see Yusuke, strange things start happening.Something's watching him.





	The Art of Concealing

**Author's Note:**

> This is shukita with spicy P.T. flavor, honestly.

When Akira steps out of Leblanc's tiny bathroom, the exhaustion finally hits him. His back aches from sitting in the car for nearly two hours, and his neck hurts from jolting awake every few minutes. The pain winds from his neck up to his eyes, a migraine threatening to break loose.

He's never been able to sleep on the ride from Chiba to Tokyo, and he doesn't know why he bothered trying this time. Something about this trip was different. Past the toll area, where the bridge wound beneath the waves into an underwater tunnel, he was usually wide awake listening to the hum of the car. But this time, sleep overcame him. He didn't fight it.

There was something he didn't want to think about, but it followed him into his dreams, anyway. In the infinite, coiling darkness, hands wrapped around his throat, and every time, he'd wake up either gasping or reaching out for someone — something.

Akira made a promise. It was months ago when Yusuke mentioned the stars: how he wanted to see them again but in person this time. He wanted to make more memories.

"With you," he had said.

With Akira back in his hometown, they were usually stuck with a mix of texting and video chats, and at the time, he was grateful for his cheap webcam. It pixelated his face — sometimes with such intensity that, for a few seconds, he'd be indistinguishable from the background. He blended in with the rest of the room, meshing into nothing. His eyes were hidden.

Yusuke thought it was beautiful, and that hurt Akira more than he could ever say. There is art in everything — Yusuke taught him that — but he didn't want to blend in. He wanted to be someone special to him.

Akira was begging Yusuke to see him when, really, he shouldn't have been so selfish. He should have opened his eyes, too.

Tonight, he will finally be able to fulfill his promise — redeem the time, redeem the dream. He digs into his pocket to make sure everything is still there: keys, phone. Through the front door of Leblanc, he can see how dark it is, eerie as it beckons him forward.

Yusuke is somewhere out there, the night sky awash with stars as he waits for Akira to gaze upon them with him. This excursion is a birthday gift of sorts; Akira didn't know what else to give him, so he offered him his word.

"I'll come back for you," he'd said, microphone crackling as he shared his warmest smile over their video call. He'd come back for Yusuke and the stars, is what he meant — but mostly the former. The stars couldn't compare to Yusuke's face when he's found new inspiration, new drive to create something out of nothing.

He's ready to head out, skin tingling with trepidation as he pushes Leblanc's front door open. Once he's made his way through the exit, Akira expects the chill of the autumn air, but instead, he's back in the cafe. He turns around, and all that's behind him is the small bathroom. The lights in the main room flicker, stained glass blinking flashes of rainbow against the walls.

He doesn't think too much of it at first — just an odd flush of deja vu due to stress — but then he's out Leblanc's front door and back in front of the bathroom again. It's darker now, the ceiling lights creaking back and forth. They aren't supposed to be able to bend like that; the most they do is shake when the ground shakes during an earthquake.

The movement transfixes him longer than it should, his body starting to sway along with the lights. If he watches, maybe he will see — maybe he will come to understand. But he doesn't understand, and instead, the light over the counter crashes to the floor, making him jump and drawing his eye. There's a strange shape on the counter now, dark and round, and the moment he picks it up, he knows what it is.

It's the face painting kit he gave Yusuke what feels like years ago now, shaped like an artist's palette and covered in an array of colors. It was a silly gift, something he saw when he and Ryuji stopped by a store once. He remembers mulling over the gift so long, thinking it would be scoffed at, that Ryuji ended up plucking it off the shelf and shoving it into his hands.

"Just tell him how you feel already," he whined. "You get so dopey about that weirdo."

Akira planned on heeding that advice. He wrapped up his gift and presented it to Yusuke later, who reacted with quiet curiosity as he inspected the present. This wasn't what Akira expected at all, and before long, Yusuke was dipping his fingers into the paint and reaching for his face.

There was no way he could refuse him. Instead, he sat down on his bed, letting Yusuke's fingers whirl across his cheekbones. Sometimes his eyes would almost droop shut, relaxed beneath his hands, but he couldn't keep them closed for long — not with him so close. So near.

As Yusuke painted the afternoon away, Akira almost kissed him. If he leaned just a bit forward, he could've brushed their faces together, and if he needed to, he could have dragged him closer by the collar of his shirt. He was within his grasp.

But he did not. Their eyes swept over each other's face and their breaths mingled, steaming the cold air, but they didn't kiss. Even later when Yusuke crawled into bed with him, abandoning the blankets on the floor for Akira's warmth, they did not kiss.

It was a long, long night. When Akira woke up with Yusuke's arms around him, it was the hardest thing to wriggle out of his hold when he couldn't deny the bathroom's call any longer.

The hardest thing.

Although he smiles at the memory, there's no reason the paint should he here at Leblanc. Even if Yusuke stopped by at some point and left it, he gave it to him years ago. The paint would be cracked and dry by now, unfit for use. It looks new again, the surface of each color smooth as if no one has used it yet.

It's new. It's old. When Akira lifts it to his face, it smells of charcoal and faintly of lemons — like Yusuke when he's gone on a cleaning spree after an art marathon. The artificial lemon scent of his cleaning supplies always clung to his clothes and skin, holding on for dear life. Yusuke never realized how much the smell came to comfort Akira.

When he sets it back on the counter, unsure of what to do with it, he hears a heavy breath behind him. It rushes in and out, scratchy as it meets the air. Something tells him not to investigate — that whatever roaming the cafe is unfit for his eyes — but there's no one there when he turns to look. There couldn't be, after all; the cafe is locked up for the night, and there's nowhere for anyone to hide. If anyone had retreated to the attic, he would've heard the creaking of the steps.

The sound of breathing twists through the air, coming from the row of empty booths now, but again, he turns to see nothing. Even the ceiling lights have paused their ominous swaying, flickering but still as they watch him.

Outside, it starts to rain. He can hear it tapping the glass of the front door, and he opens it to leave again, but the cafe greets him once more. Still dark, still empty. The rain continues, hammering the walls, but he can't touch it, no matter how many times he tries to leave Leblanc. He starts to wonder if he'll ever be able to feel its chill against his skin again.

Yusuke must still be out there, waiting for his friend's arrival. Akira thinks about how cold he must be, how irritation might turn to worry the longer he waits. The last thing he wants is to upset him, but something pulls him back to Leblanc each time he attempts to leave, holding him here.

The paint set is gone from the countertop on his next loop through the cafe as if it'd never been there in the first place. He runs his hands across the wood, but there is nothing. Whoever — or whatever — put it there must have taken it back, taunting him.

He isn't worthy of Yusuke. He doesn't know what else this could all mean or what it could be trying to say by slipping him this reminder of Yusuke then snatching away the evidence.

It.

There's something here. Someone. If anything, it knows what matters to him. It knows exactly where to hit him to inflict the most pain.

His weakness.

As he makes his way out of Leblanc again, determined to taste the rain, something clatters to the floor.

The Sayuri. Yusuke's most precious possession that he had lent to Akira for safekeeping. After he props it up against the wall, he inspects it for damage. He's no art connoisseur, but it seems fine; the portrait looks the same as he remembers, striking in a melancholic way.

If Akira didn't know better, he'd almost think it was Yusuke here, tormenting him. Everything so far has revolved around him: the face paint, the Sayuri, and even Akira's inability to leave Leblanc. It's Yusuke he's supposed to be meeting tonight, after all.

He can hear the hum of the television even before he's opened the front door all the way, low and fuzzy as he's pulled into yet another loop. It's not something he wants to hear, but it draws him in, regardless.

For a while, his eyes are glued to the screen, but it's only showing static as erratic splashes of black and white paint the screen. He can still hear the words, pushing through the storm as he is forced to hear. Feel. Think.

"Father kills son, then self, in brutal attack…"

The screen turns white, a bright glare against the lens of his glasses. Akira squints, unclenching his fists. A shaky breath leaves his lips.

_That's not quite the whole story, though, is it?_

It was a week ago when Yusuke called him, excited for their upcoming rendezvous. It was a phone call this time, and without being able to see his face, Akira wasn't sure how to parse the words. He hadn't seen him in so long that he'd lost much of his ability to read between the cryptic lines.

"There is something I wish to tell you," Yusuke had said. "But it has to be in person. It has to be…"

Akira was never able to hear what Yusuke planned on saying — the confession he had held so tightly within himself. Less than an hour after the call he was dead, while Akira lied in bed dreaming about him. He dreamt of the time Yusuke painted his face, fingertips dancing on his skin, and how warm he was when they were in bed together. Despite Yusuke's element being ice back when they roamed as Phantom Thieves, he was always warm. So warm.

Yusuke's passion encompassed his whole heart, swallowing it up, and that's what Akira loved the most about him. No matter what life threw at him, his positivity always won out. He kept fighting — for the beautiful things in life.

The next call was from Ann. Being the first to see the announcement plastered on the morning news, she took it upon herself to inform the others.

Akira's hands shook as she spoke. Her voice was thick, a muck of bad news and heartache. Shock was starting to set in, but he still squinted his eyes against the oncoming tears, fighting them. The never-ending war.

Even now, he's still wondering why he put off their trip for so long. The commute from Chiba to Tokyo isn't that long, and Yusuke was worth the loss of those few hours. Maybe it was due to stress at work, sucking out his drive to socialize whatsoever, or maybe it was the fear of rejection. He planned on telling him how he felt the night they were supposed to watch the stars — leaning in for a kiss if he'd let him — but it's too late for that now.

Either way, Yusuke is dead. Once free of prison's hard embrace, Madarame decided to visit his former pupil. Enough time had passed for Yusuke to let him in when he came knocking in the middle of the night, probably feeling a mix of surprise and nostalgia. Maybe he manipulated him, the way he had years ago, using their past as a stepping stone. Madarame's honeyed words eventually turned to hands around his throat, but Akira tries not to think about that.

The idea that Yusuke suffered immensely beneath the hands of someone he once adored is too much. The thought that Yusuke suffered at all plagues him.

When the television shuts off, content with the reality it ushered in, Akira blinks. There are dozens of pictures dotting the counter now: Yusuke smiling, Yusuke deep in thought, Akira's arm around his shoulder. Some slip to the floor, a quiet scratching sound as they curl against the wood.

_That's right. I came to Tokyo for the wake._

_And the pictures…_

Ann asked him to bring some that they might be able to use for his portrait at the ceremony. She asked Akira because she knew he had hundreds. Thousands. No one else watched Yusuke like he did, taking his picture at every odd moment to preserve the time they spent together.

She asked Akira because she knows how much he loves him.

Even that had been too much of a burden for him, heart sinking lower and lower as he browsed the collection he had acquired over the years. He couldn't choose, so he brought dozens, the pile thick with grief and near-forgotten memories.

_Yusuke is so beautiful, after all._

_Or he was._

Inside Yusuke's apartment, they had found paintings of Akira in every sort of pose: some smiling, some nude, some contorted. The whole time while Akira was off in his hometown dreaming of Yusuke, he was being painted. He was being worshipped and adored in ways that only ever graced him in his dreams. The canvases were hard and cold beneath his hands, no longer full of the fire that breathed life into them. They were his now if he wanted them.

He wasn't sure if he did — he imagined cramming them all in a trailer and toting them back home, setting them all up around his apartment — but he didn't think he had a choice. Maybe they weren't created with the idea of Akira ever inheriting them, but that's what it came to. He inherited the evidence of his obliviousness, of his inaction.

The realization that Yusuke loved him back doesn't help with the itch of regret, gnawing at his bones. Their eyes had been on each other for years, plastered with an insecurity that they might not meet their own standards for love.

It's an absurd thought, thinking back. So many stifled opportunities.

Akira exits Leblanc one last time, leaving it all behind him — his love, his memories — to confront something quite different.

The cafe is swamped with darkness now, but he can hear the choked sobs again, beckoning to him from the shadows. They are his own. He realizes now who has been following him — the only person who would care enough to torment him with such ferocity.

It's himself.

One of the lights flicker, a kaleidoscope of color, and Akira sees him. So tall his head nearly touches the ceiling, arms nearly reaching his knees. With another flicker of light, there's another glimpse of the dark, flowing trench coat he knows well.

Joker laughs, voice careening into a high-pitched wail. He reaches for him through the gloom, elongated limbs sliding towards him, and Akira doesn't turn away. Not even when gnarled hands wrap around his neck, the reddest of gloves only hiding part of the twisted fingers. They curl and bend against his throat, digging deep as the joints crack and pop.

The rotting face closes in, filling Akira's nose with the stench of decay. Watering eyes overflow to drench his cheeks, and in a moment of strange mercy, Joker licks the tears, his coarse tongue scratching Akira's skin.

A kiss, finally, as Joker's cracked lips meet his. Akira opens his mouth to meet his breath, an imitation of what could have been. If he'd come to see Yusuke sooner, if he'd pestered him into moving closer, maybe things could have been different.

But he didn't do anything. He let his feelings fester inside him until he was bursting at the seams, desperate for anything: to see him, to talk about him, to think about him. Greedy but unseeing.

Now all he has are his own final breaths, choked out of him as Joker's tongue worms its way across his lips. Joker is all he has now — him and whatever memories he's still able to grasp.

Finally, he knows what Yusuke felt in those last moments. The guilt wraps around him, shattering him, but Joker is here to catch what's left.

Joker is here. Joker is always here.

As dawn covers the cafe, slipping through the glass of the front door that tormented him only minutes before, Akira finds a strange peace. Even if there's nothing after this — or if he's stuck in purgatory, forced to relive the past week over and over — there's a sort of harmony to it. His feet leave the floor as Joker lifts him up, the choking sounds he was making before now escaping his own throat.

It's come full circle.

He's always been his own worst enemy, after all. It's him who has always brought himself so low, insecurities abound.

In the shadows of the place he once called home, Akira has seen the eyes of the faceless one at last.

_Turn around._

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally the fill for my "ghost" Spook Me prompt, but I ended up writing another story fitting the theme that I finished editing in time.
> 
> I re-played P.T. a few months ago, screaming my way through, and I couldn't get the idea of Akira going through a loop of Leblanc (with a Lisa-esque Joker following him) out of my head. Therefore, this story.
> 
> Fun fact: I almost always have tiny references to my favorite books in my fics, but this one has a reference to Final Fantasy XIV, too. If anyone finds if, they get a cookie.
> 
> Happy Halloween!


End file.
